When Cyrus stepped out of his machine he stood for a moment unsteady on
his legs; a usual condition in a sudden change of air after hours of
bewildering speed.
So far as he could judge he was in the grounds of an institution of
some kind--a monastery, a college, a convent, or possibly a summer
palace. Along the side of the garden overlooking the sea, which lay
far below, ran a wall. On this wall at regular spaces stood statues
of ecclesiastical persons, presumably Saints. They stood back to the
sea, facing the garden. In the garden a fountain played. Off beyond
the garden he saw long, white buildings, and a chapel. But what most
impressed him was the beauty of a line of cloisters, their many arches
of white marble, softened by age, now all aglow in the light of the
western sun. But his wandering, enchanted eyes fell upon another sight,
different in character, yet fully as interesting. But in a different
way. So interesting that he forgot, for a moment, the garden, the
fountain, the cloisters and the Saints. The sight that gently stirred
him was the figure of a girl; a graceful figure that seemed a fitting
climax to this garden in fairy land. She was leaning against the
parapet, her face toward the sun, now sinking in the West. She seemed
in deepest meditation. Her dress, a light gray, with white bands at
the neck and shoulders, suggested a religious order. So he decided
that his guess at having landed in a convent might be correct. He was
not familiar with convents. The inmates, so far as he knew, might
be a mingling of religious fanatics and female criminals partially
reformed. He felt sure, however, up to the present moment, that they
were wide and square in build, plain of face and haters of men. Hence
his surprise at the alluring, girlish figure now before him. Perhaps
this one was in here by mistake. Or, she might be some lovely victim
of disappointed love. May be a human angel brutally treated by cruel
relatives. Perhaps a marriageable princess escaping a distasteful
alliance. But these were merely guesses. She was standing not far away,
and was partly hidden from the convent buildings by the trunks of the
ancient cypresses.
Cyrus approached this damsel. He saw that she was short, and slight of
figure, distinctly _petite_, and so absorbed in her own thoughts that
she failed to hear his footsteps on the gravel walk.
He coughed. It seemed a safe if not original manner of announcing
his presence. The girl turned and faced him. She was startled; and
a hand went swiftly to her lips as if to suppress an exclamation. A
short moment they stood regarding each other, a dozen feet apart, the
light full in the face of the intruder, while the girl's was partly
in shadow. For the descending sun was almost directly behind her. So
earnestly she studied him that he became embarrassed. Her own surprise
was so great that her lips parted, then closed again, as if her voice
were lost in astonishment. She took a backward step and laid a hand
on the parapet as if for support. As for Cyrus, this little person
was easily the most entrancing vision of his experience. Slight,
erect, with a dainty head and glorious eyes, she seemed a perfect and
harmonious element with the radiant splendors in the West. Such eyes
he had not beheld since he lived beneath the spell of the celestial
windows of Ruth Heywood's soul. These present eyes, now opened wide in
wonder, were trying to grapple with his presence, as with some visitors
from another planet.
Cyrus bowed; his very best, most elaborate and ceremonious inclination.
And Cyrus's bows were works of art.
Had he been attired in court costume, and swept the earth with a
chapeau of ostrich plumes instead of a checkered golf cap, he would
have eclipsed the Grand Monarque in his own field. It was, of course,
the same old salutation that had startled Longfields years ago.